The following is Celie’s Livingston's latest Thanksgiving story:
Daddy insisted we go to his mother’s house for Thanksgiving last year. Mama pouted for Lord knows how long because she’s Jewish and my grandmother is a bonafide born-again Christian.
You can’t create a more perfect storm.
Granny tries to make her point by collecting small Pilgrim figurines so she can put miniature halos on their heads. She’s first in line at the Hallmark store on Black Friday in order to add to her collection. She calls them God’s little angels and she’s certain that the black garments worn by the original Pilgrims were actually Nun’s habits.
Granny talks her head off about those stupid knick-knacks of hers while we do a lot of yawning that has nothing whatsoever to do with the Tryptophan-ladened turkey.
Last year, right in the middle of Granny’s long Thanksgiving blessing (I watched the turkey getting frostbite and the dressing and gravy turn to Jello), my little brother escaped one. Yep. The little monster farted. Granny stopped in the middle of her Thanksgiving prayer-slash-sermon giving thanks to God for sending Christopher Columbus to America. In no time at all, she turned a bright shade of blue. I thought it was due to my little brother’s sweet potato after effects — he had sneaked a mouthful way before Granny finished blessing it. Granny was having a tacky-cardia that scared her so bad she sat straight up and held her breath till she turned the color of a blueberry.
Daddy jumped up and dialed 911 on his cell and by and by two unhappy paramedics left their own turkey table and showed up at Granny’s front door. After they left, Daddy covered Granny with a crocheted Afghan on the sofa and told her to hug her Bible.
Then he put Mama in charge of reheating everything in the microwave which was a serious mistake. Mama doesn’t cook because she’s a Jewish Princess who claims to be electronically challenged. When she gets within three feet of a microwave, she turn into a pillar of salt.
Mama reminded Daddy of the last Thanksgiving fiasco, but he was able to convince her that Granny could be looking at her last turkey day. He said she needed to show off her little pilgrim nuns one more time before the Rapture that she was so looking forward to, whooshed her up to be with Jesus.
Mama agreed to go to Granny's but on one condition: he had to promise her that we would eat Thanksgiving dinner at the Japanese Restaurant downtown because it was right next door to the fire station and the paramedics. If Granny's tacky-cardia acted up again, rescue would be, if not a piece of cake, then maybe a slice of pie.
Who knew that daigakuimo was a Japanese sweet potato specialty, or that it had been a featured menu item every Thanksgiving since we won the big war?
Who knew that the paramedics in the building next door had decided to eat turkey at home?
Two weeks later, my little brother suggested that we plant a sweet potato vine next to Granny’s tombstone. He felt sure it would produce a full crop. I told him it was a tacky-cardia idea, but Mama grinned real big and said, “I’ll get the shovel.”
